Don't judge a Book by it's Cover
by Sera dy Relandrant
Summary: Sam Madison. Mia Thermopolis. Opposite ends of the spectrum. Do they have more in common than meets the eye?


You'd think I'd be used to it by now - sharing the stage with minor celebrities, I mean. As Catherine never fails to remind me, I am one in my own right. Indeed, there was a phase when I was assiduously (SAT word: constant in application or attention; diligent) courted by reality shows who assured me that the American public was just dying to see me eat snakes/ride motorcycles through flaming hoops/spend a month with vapid lingerie models and that I needed that exposure to catapault me from minor stardom to major. Because that, apparently was my sole aim in life.

But tonight, I wouldn't be on air with the Brazilian ambassador or whatever, looking totally good-girl-with-pseudo-rebel-hair. Oh no, tonight I'd be on air with Kris Park's idol, the Lady Di of the twenty-first century, New York's very own royal...

Princess Mia of Genovia.

Yeah, my innards felt just like that time David's mom force-fed me the scalloped tomato rose at dinner.

No seriously, what could _I _- idolater of ham, five-foot-nothing, fashion sense equivalent to negative - have in common with _her _- poster-child of the vegans, supermodelesque, Manhattan socialite? People's Princess, puhlease, she's the Queen of the Bimbos and the only reason why she's not a cheerleader is probably because she doesn't have enough time on her royal itinerary. Helen Ackermann, who's on the talk-show board, assured me that it would be a lot while she was fussing over my face. But then, she also told me she has a daughter my age and considering how hot she is - Helen, I mean - that's not remotely likely. Unless she gave birth in the middle of her highschool prom.

The bonus was that they hadn't stuffed me in a scratchy suit or pantyhose since this program was supposed to be 'modern' and 'aimed towards the young'. Like 'the young' are going to give up their Saturday night make-out sessions to watch me and her air our - editted-for-TV - opinions. Well, the Kris Parks' of the world might want to listen to the princess, because her remarkable fashion sense has ensured that's she's Vogue's It Girl, but me? Please.

Lucy'd dyed my eyebrows to match my hair, so it looked less stupid. I'd used the horse-conditioner and let it down too so that it was sleek and shiny under the lights, I didn't want to look like a complete hag next to I-glide-in-couture Thermopolis. My shirt was moss-green velvet and kind of low - no wonder David had insisted I buy it - and Theresa had finally given in and let me wear my favorite, skin-tight leather jeans. I was totally rockstar _tres chic. _

"Where is she?" I asked no one, mussing up my hair so that it stuck up a little at the back. Usually it's super bouncy, but after liberal (perhaps too liberal) application of horse-conditioner it was plastered flat to my skull in a way that wasn't very flattering, Rebecca told me. I flapped the script for emphasis, and everyone who was milling around looked annoyed. "We need to go through the script at least once," I said in my defense.

Nobody had wanted me to create _another _national incident - Thanksgiving had taught them their lesson - so I'd been provided with a detailed script and ordered to memorize it. The princess, I assumed, was always provided with one. I mean, I seriously doubt someone who looked like her could have any opinions of her own, except what flavor lip-gloss to wear. Whenever she was on TV she even talked like a freak - real slow and usually about Greenpeace and baby seals. Don't get me wrong, baby seals are cute but she goes way too overboard about her love of them. It seems kind of fake, actually.

And she was super nerdy or something before everyone found out she was a princess - I remember seeing her school photo in the Times years ago and God, her hair could give mine a run for it's money. But then she hooked a hot jock boyfriend - and dumped him for another and another... _Poseur_, I tell you.

"Princess Mia'll be here soon enough," Helen told me very nicely. "She might have prior commitments just now."

I all but snorted. That spastic?

And sure enough, a royal five minutes after she was due, she waltzed in. She's super-tall, like six feet or something, and she walks like she's on a catwalk. She looks like a supermodel too, what with her noticeable lack of chest and perfectly bobbed, golden-blond hair cutting a shimmery arc around her face. She looks totally like a modern princess should. Tonight she was wearing a sleeveless grey silk minidress which complemented her eyes - and which I knew would make Kris go absolutely crazy -, earrings like Lucy's favorite pair made out of red wire and a broad, scarlet belt that matched her nailpolish. She was carrying an egg-shaped tote and I could see a journal sticking out of it.

"Hey," she said breathlessly, sliding into a chair. She sat down with her legs crossed so you couldn't see her underwear - a trick which Lucy is always trying to teach me, but which I see no use for because I will never wear minidresses. I mean, my legs are so short that there's not much space for a minidress on me unless I want to look like a hooker. "Sorry, I'm late." She smiled at me, a ditzy, Maybelline smile.

"Um, no problem, Your Highness," I said, though I knew she'd tell me to call her Mia. Even though her real name is Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo Thermopolis - yes, I was crazy about her when I was freshman, so sue me - she's known all over the world as Princess Mia.

I was right. A second later, she leaned over and breathed, "Mia. It's Sam right?" She was wearing sparkly, lilac eyeshadow and her lashes were thick with mascara. It was like looking into Kris's eyes and the effect was disconcerting.

Just like I've eschewed the totally turn-of-the-century-Mayfair-drawing-room Samantha Madison for the egalitarian (SAT word: asserting, resulting from, or characterized by belief in the equality of all people, esp. in political, economic, or social life), utilitarian Sam. Or Sharona.

"Um," I said.

"I just wanted to say," the princess said, "that I really like your hair - after you dyed it, I mean."

I was tempted to raise one eyebrow - I've got it down, after practicing in front of my mirror. I thought she meant it in a mean way, because no one has mentioned that they like my new hair - except David, but he was under the influence of my eyeball-grabbing Nike tee when he said it. "Thanks?"

"It's really cool that you went out and did your own thing. And on MTV, what you said to the President was totally righteous. Lilly thought you were awesome," she said. "I wish I could, but Grandmere would freak."

"Grandmere?" I wondered why she was calling her grandmother 'Grandmere' cause that's French for grandmother - I thought it was something really posh poseurs did. But then I remembered that she was kind of French since Genovia and France are really close - I did my homework well when I was fascinated with her in ninth grade.

"The Dowager Princess, Clarisse Marie Renaldo," she recited, making a small face. Somehow she looked nicer, more human, with her face scrunched up and less perfect. "Didn't your mom or anyone get mad?"

"Nah, my mom's pretty lenient about that stuff," I said. "Not Theresa though."

She looked intrigued. "Who's Theresa?"

So I told her about our crazy, Spanish housekeeper and how she's been with us for a few eternities. "Like Lars," she interrupted me. "My bodyguard. God, I used to be so embarrassed when Dad told me he had to accompany me _everywhere._ Not the ladies' room though," she added quickly. Funny, I'd almost been about to ask her that. "But then it was okay."

"I know what you mean," I said with feeling. Because I sort of do - my boyfriend is, after all, in the same position as her.

"But you already know," she said, eyes kind of twinkly. "I mean, you're going out with David." She didn't say 'The First Son' like a lot of people do - and which pisses David off no end. He says it makes him feel like a puppy.

Then I told her, how Rob shadows him to Susan Boone's and about our first real-life drawing class and how depressed he was having to draw Terry naked. She laughed.

Here's the thing about how Princess Mia laughs. It's not a bit how I imagined her laughing - no delicate, simper-over-teacups, windchime giggles for her. She has this big, throaty, kind of bullfrogish laugh and she sort of bounced out of her chair when she was laughing. Everyone stared, but it was kind of nice and all ice-breaky and stuff, her laugh. It's weird, the way you imagine someone to be and then they turn out completely different. That's usually in a bad way, but for her it was in a very nice way.

"Lights on in five! Five..."

She smiled at me. "Ready?" she asked, fluffing up her hair a bit.

"Four... three..."

I smiled back at her.

"..two..."

"Ready."

"... one! Action!"

**10 Reasons to like Princess Mia:**

**10. She can't help chewing her fingernails, and the only reason her they're still immaculate is because they're absolutely, completely fake - 'tiny surfboards attached with astronaut glue', like she puts it. That's way humanizing, as far as quirks go. **

**9. She's actually going out with Michael Moscovitz - Harold's idol of the moment - and not for publicity stunt purposes either. I could totally tell from the way she perked up when he called - it was every bit as sickeningly sappy as mine and David's calls sometimes go, like Rebecca tells me. **

**8. Being Harold's idol, he's a super-geek, so she and I can totally bond over the awesomeness of geek boyfriends. **

**7. Her Grandmere, who tyrannizes over **_**everyone **_**- as she emphatically told me - is her fashion coordinator, and if left to herself she'd probably be occupying a spot next to mine in Fashion Don't lists. **

**6. Her mom, Helen Thermopolis Giannini, is on Art Today's Top 50 Artists to Watch out for. She must have inherited some of that artistic temperament. **

**5. Only it comes out in the form of writing. Still it's hard not to like someone who gets passionate over beauty - I see beauty in paint, she sees it in words. We so bonded over the burden of our capricious Muses. She scribbles in her journal when she should be doing something else, I doodle in my German notebook. **

**4. She knows about being hounded by psychotic cheerleaders just because she's famous - Lana Weinberger in her case, Kris Parks in mine. **

**3. Ditto about the trauma associated with being a finicky eater, even though we're on opposite ends of the gourmand spectrum - she can't subsist on anything but vegetables and I can't subsist on anything but meat. But she's not a vegan (I get that milk is gross, but why deprive yourself of **_**all **_**sources of protein?) which is totally for fashion statement purposes. She's a vegetarian, which is normal enough. Hey, Gandhi was a vegetarian.**

**2. High principles. Instead of accepting the $100-per-day her dad was ready to shell out to her so she'd take Princess Lessons with her Grandmere, she has magnamiously decided to donate it all to Greenpeace. That shows amazing commitment - I mean, I don't think I'd be able to overcome the temptation to splurge at Static if **_**my **_**dad was offering me that. **

**And last but not least:**

**1. She's nice. She really is. And not coz she's a Taurus and I'm an Aquarius and we get along well - it's just her. Which goes to prove that you shouldn't judge a book by it's cover. It's cool when your grandmother's adages (SAT word: ****short but memorable saying that holds some important fact of experience) really work. **

**A/N: I wanted to try something different, and though this is random and very short - and very unsubstance-filled - I hope you liked it! **


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